Jekyll and Hyde
by AdventsExodus
Summary: Sherlock is forced into joining the genetic engineering program of the United Federation of Planets because of his intelligence. However, the chemicals injected go wrong and mess with his mind. An internal struggle ensues until someone eventually gives in, with everyone he sought to protect helplessly watching as it all falls apart. [Spoilers for Season 3, rated T for language]
1. Salvation

Chapter 1

"Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."

The words echoed in the dark, giving off the illusion of a cavernous setting – its wide space holding everything and nothing simultaneously. He shifted his gaze but no matter the direction, he found himself unable to pinpoint the source of the voice that sent his nerves on end.

"John…"

It was his voice, there was no mistaking it. But how? He hadn't spoken a word. Perhaps a recording from long ago; back when things were simpler, safer… duller. What was this place? He knew it contained an enormous amount of room, but where in London could such a site exist without the notice of anyone? Was he even in London?

"Not just John. Everyone… _Everyone_."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, arms propelling him upwards as the sudden disturbance beside him simultaneously occurred upon his return to consciousness. A quick glance and he sneered at himself. It was only a leaking pipe, the droplets creating a painful rhythm on the metallic lamp beside him.

Rolling over so that he could lay on his back, the man ran a hand through his tangled mesh of hair. Time had taken its toll and the once kept, short locks lengthened to the natty snarls he now possessed. Additionally, his former lean, nimble physical condition withered, producing a more emaciated form. Even the style he donned altered - resembling that of a vagabond instead of the classy detective wear.

Opening his eyes to the smooth dusky room, Sherlock once again allowed the memories to flow back to him despite his heart's desperate plea to spare him the pain. Images of Moriarty on the top of St. Barts arrived first – fragments of the day it all went wrong. He was supposed to have jumped off the building in a superfluous performance to appease the manic foe's desires; to then work his way around the world, demolishing the remnants of his organization so that they could no longer hold his friends' lives over his head; to eventually return to London, to John, to his life…

But none of it came to pass. Instead, Moriarty desired not the termination of his life but the subjection of it for the purposes of a fledgling company by the name of the United Federation of Planets, which was forced into the black market to secure test subjects for its controversial genetic engineering program. His enemy remained true to his word, dismissing Sherlock's view that he desired death. Instead, they were 'two sides of the same coin'. One couldn't live without the other. And although he scrutinized such illogical thoughts, the detective found the statement to ring eerily true as neither of the men departed from the world that day.

The events that followed progressed in a hazy manner, frustrating him. He counted on his memory to serve as a time table so that his sanity would hold. Yet the beginning months frayed apart in his recollections due to the increased amount of blindfolds, traveling and sedatives administered to him in order to salvage the secrecy of the organization. After all, should someone as infamous as Sherlock Holmes escape and tell of the group's inhumane experiments, the organization would certainly collapse. Nevertheless, they did contain signed records of his – albeit forced – consent of the experimentation, so at least in that sector they could derive some false security.

The prospect of being on the other side of the lens unnerved him at first – consistent prodding, poking and pricks by the scientists to gather his genetics nearly pushing him to escape at any opportunity that presented itself to him. In spite of his desires, the chilling threat of Moriarty loomed over him, keeping him in the facility. So long as his companions were in peril of the man's dastardly tactics, Sherlock had no option other than to submissively act the part of an ideal lab rat.

Despite the distasteful conditions, the detective found the preliminary months almost pleasant. The engineers weren't prone to violent methods to extract him for samples, and one in fact shared his interest in chemistry – possessing knowledge nearly on par with his. The doctor, whom he later found out to be Ms. Jodie Bell, frequently escorted him between his simply furnished lodging to the examination room, conversing along the way about various topics. At first Sherlock disregarded the woman, dubbing her manipulative and prone to useless chatter, yet upon discovering their connection he gradually warmed up to her as much as he would allow without jeopardizing his chances of liberation. Although he found escape in their talks, his first priority never wavered from view: he must find a way to leave the place and return to London without the cost of the lives of those he cared for.

Things began to take a turn for the worse upon the commencement of the experiment in the sixth month of his residence at the organization. He remembered it clearly, and had the scars to prove of it.

"_Sherlock? Come on, it's time to begin," Jodie's voice calmly beckoned him to follow her._

_Abiding, he spoke, "Six months. It has taken nearly half a year to process my physiology, not the swiftest bunch are you? I suppose the repercussions of using illicit methods to obtain subjects holds some culpability in that respect."_

"_Of course, no need to rashly speed through a project of this magnitude," she responded, "If we were to pass over even the slightest blunder, than the entire company would collapse; our own lives soon after."_

_Sherlock let the routine journey through the now familiar maze of halls and checkpoints take over the conversation. He didn't blame Jodie for wanting to preserve her own well-being, such methods were simply human nature and thus unavoidable. Still, he wondered what possessed the young woman to keep her rooted in the underground organization rather than pursue a more beneficial role in society. Previously he confronted her about the nagging question and she plainly told of her lack of success in obtaining any position she deemed herself worthy of due to the invisible glass ceiling. _

_Had the circumstances of their meeting been different, the detective would've secured her a suitable place at Barts with no difficulty. Yet the reality prevented such acts of goodwill, and a piece of him felt sorrow on that note. It didn't last long though, since he always pushed the notions away with more imperative ones of returning, while reminding himself of the darkness she truly possessed to allow such experiments to persist – even if they proved beneficial to society in the long run._

_They stepped into the room and instantly he caught sight of the new machinery present. It was hardly an effort, seeing as the mechanics filled a good portion of the room, giving him the opportunity to scan the object with intentions of deducing its purpose. His gaze only faltered upon Jodie gently pushing him down on the cot, allowing the other two men in the room to stick an IV in his arm and proceed with the typical medical procedures._

"_Alright, we'll begin in a moment. Until then, I suggest you try to relax to the best of your ability. Once we start there'll be no stopping until it's done, so if you need anything say it now," she instructed._

"_How about a ticket back to England?" he asked, knowing full well the vanity of his attempt._

_She chuckled, "Sorry, can't do that. But maybe…"_

"_Dr. Bell, if the patient doesn't require any further attention then I recommend you return to your studies," the head engineer roughly interrupted._

"_Of course," she acknowledged, giving one last squeeze of his hand, "Don't worry, I'll come back to pick you up."_

_He smiled, if only to reassure her and get the process over with, yet couldn't shake a tinge of apprehension that only intensified upon the doctor restraining his arms. This was new. Before, they always left him unrestrained upon acknowledging his cooperation. Obviously things had changed, and Sherlock could only assume the commencement of the experiment would prove agonizing to require bondage._

_Despite having grown accustomed to needles piercing his forearm, Sherlock flinched at the injection of the needle, glancing over to see not the typical 20 gauge but about a 15. Following the connecting tubes, he watched as a vile of what he could only assume to be blood being inserted on the other end. What did they plan on injecting him with? He ground his teeth when the answer veiled itself from his view, snapping his eyes towards the doctor as he began:_

"_This won't hurt a bit."_

Sherlock shuddered, knowing from experience the statement to be false. Those first few weeks of the trials nearly killed him; sending him into cardiac arrest twice and sequentially requiring him to endure the dolorous irritation of a breathing tube shoved down his throat at every session. After each five hour period he found himself paralyzed, having to be wheeled back into the room on multiple occasions. It was only until the middle of the second month of treatment that he found the strength to limp back with the support of Jodie.

The woman herself seemed greatly affected by the experimentation as time passed. It appeared to him that her resolve was wavering upon acknowledging the ramifications that the so-called 'noble' research had on him. Her concern progressed, manifesting formerly in the extra portions of food he received, and eventually evolving to an unexpected level as she absentmindedly considered sneaking him out. Yet before any such attempts could be made, Dr. Bell ceased coming to Sherlock's room. A week later he was informed of her dubious resignation by a new, more callous aid: Rick.

From then on, life transformed into the current state of limbo with him returning to the lab table every other day as opposed to maybe twice a week. The new assistance didn't cushion the matter either, instead intensifying the cruelty by roughly throwing the detective to the floor after each treatment and eventually reducing the room to the unsanitary condition it was now: with only a small mattress lying on the dusty floor beside a metal table holding a scrap of paper and rusted, flickering lamp.

Desperation at some point in the middle of the second year of his residence drove him to attempt escape. Unfortunately, the undertaking proved ineffective. Indeed, all he had to show of it were the lingering scars of where Rick furiously beat him for nearly costing him his job and a stain scratching at the thin tank covering his torso. Inattentively, Sherlock brushed his hand across the stain, allowing the ridges and contrasting textures to perk his senses as if anticipating the painful illumination of the room a moment later.

"Rise and shine, time for another day of fun!" Rick sneered as he watched the man pinch the bridge of his nose to buffer an oncoming headache.

Of all the employees in the facility, Rick definitely found refuge among the top of those the detective loathed the most. It wasn't solely due to the aid's inhumane treatment. No, Sherlock wasn't that petty. Rather, the most prominent annoyance spurred from the man's lack of intelligence. He was the poster child for an idiotic sycophant, speaking nothing of importance whatsoever. Sherlock himself feared not his physical damage – as the assistant would care to believe – but the mental deterioration caused by being in proximity of such a buffoon for a prolonged period of time.

Therefore, it wasn't difficult to detect the contempt in his voice as he replied, "Good morning to you as well Richard. Do tell, what does today's agenda entail? More injections? How lovely indeed."

Growling at the mention of his formal name, which took all of a second for Sherlock to deduce, he roughly hauled the detective up and shoved him out the door, snapping, "Shut your mouth and get moving rat."

Ignoring his attempt to rile him up, Sherlock proceeded down the halls that also succumbed to change. Following his attempt to flee, guards were positioned at every door, with routine patrols passing through each hallway. It had taken some time, but the detective eventually saw the pattern in the system. All that left was to find the opportune time to make his escape.

But that was for another day. Currently, he gave minimal resistance as the scientists strapped him to the cot, binding him tightly to the extent his hands felt the tingle of low circulation as he opened and closed them. A slight bout followed upon them forcing the breathing tube down his throat – a task Rick took pleasure in watching before being shoved out of the room by the medical staff. Once in place, the needle was inserted, now causing pain only on occasion when Sherlock aggravated the doctor enough to purposely make it so. But instead of one vile being pumped into his system, as was the case to start, there were now four.

"Let's get this over with," the doctor began, pressing the button to begin the process.

Sherlock steeled himself to the best of his abilities as the fluid creeped down the tube towards his arm, yet no matter how hard he tried the results always came out the same. A burning fire spread from the vein in his arm, circulating until his entire body felt as if it were transported to the surface of the sun, where imaginary residents began slowly carving into his skin. The only relief came as a strand of Chinese water torture, passingly allowing his mind temporary rest that lasted only a second of every minute.

Through the fight, he could hear the slightly hastened beat of his heart on the monitor beside him, proving his vitality in addition to his own improvement in adapting to the treatment. A terse look to the clock above showed that the fight lasted longer than he expected. Four hours had passed, giving him reason to believe he blacked out along the way. Just a quarter hour, then he would be able to return to the peaceful darkness and recover enough until a hole in the barrier presented itself.

However, the daily habitual schedule diverted from its course as muffled sounds breached the room. Hazily, Sherlock tried to catch the conversation taking place between the other occupants but ultimately fell short. He could discern by their apprehensive glances and posture that something had gone astray - and a moment later, the deduction proved correct.

Loud gunshots pierced the room, finding a home in two of the doctors' chests as they slumped to the ground, dead on impact. Hesitantly, the third snatched up a scalpel – his only weapon in the room he falsely assumed to be secure – and made to protect himself. Inwardly sneering at his attempt to defend himself with a knife against a gun, Sherlock barely flinched as he too was dispatched with a shot to the heart.

Instead, he cast his eyes on the man entering the room, wearily taking in all that he could manage. He was western European - by the noticeable tuffs of red peaking out of his cap and accompanying freckled face: Irish - probably of the secret service come to bust the black organization or perhaps even a higher up within the group. Sherlock's money was on the former.

The detective's eyes followed him as the young man noted the patient and rushed towards him to assess the situation. The way he rashly nudged his shoulder alerted that the man wasn't adept to medical procedures, therefore the current mission was to conclude without any loose ends – including the detective. However, the shock in the newcomer's eyes marred that conclusion. Somehow Sherlock's presence had changed things. Maybe he was there to take him to another secure facility… or perhaps save him?

"Oy! You alright?!" the soldier urgently asked, gripping his shoulder, "Oy! Hold on, I'm going to get you out…"

By his tone, the detective easily saw his motives. He was being saved. Finally, after what could only seem like an eternal limbo was coming to an end. Salvation had arrived. Even if it were not so, Sherlock allowed his exhausted mind to rest on the reassuring thought. His vision blurred in and out while the soldier attempted to free him from the multitude of wires and bonds securing him in place, all the while pleading for the victim to stay conscious. But it was a battle he simply didn't have the stamina to win.

Unable to combat the strain any further, Sherlock closed his heavy eyes and let the darkness take him once more.

* * *

**Who's crazy? I'm crazy! Sheesh, I should have my hands cut off for introducing a new story when I've been neglecting my other two. But what the heck, I'm inspired and this one seems really fun to do~**

**As you can see, this is a crossoverish twist on the Reichenbach Fall (or rather Reichenbach Deal?) in which Sherlock is forced into the genetic program. I say 'crossoverish' mainly because I'm new to the realm and don't really know what truly qualifies as a crossover, and in this story the only reason it's in that general area is because of the 'Hyde' position being played by Khan. So I suppose it _loosely_ qualifies right?**

**Anyway, review or favorite if you like c;**  
**And I'll try not to neglect this one or my others to the best of my ability~**


	2. Homecoming

Chapter 2

A parade of mesmerizing lights flashed in tempo of the city melodies that gently swirled around the Gothic structure of the Landmark Hotel – a building whose archaic, castle-like design demanded the attention of all who passed it in the modern street. Inside its regal halls, through the doors of the Winter Garden, a man absentmindedly watched as his waiter retreated to take up a bottle of wine.

Lowering his gaze, he pulled from his jacket pocket a small, scarlet box, revealing its precious contents in a manner so only his eyes could behold the treasure inside. Dazzling light danced on his face from the three diamonds carefully placed on the golden band resting in the plush interior of the velvet container. However, he cut off the previously half hour tribute to the item, closing and placing it delicately on the table before him.

His attention was so focused on perfecting the placement of the item that he failed to respond to the approach of his dinner date until she patted his shoulder with a smile. He fidgeted with the box one last time before glancing up at her. She took his breath away, and made him wonder how on earth a fractured man like him could even hope to attain such a beautiful woman. She was his miracle, his comfort, his last sunrise after the day he believed he'd lost it all. But all the assurance he held purchasing the ring suddenly evaporated in her presence; exhaled nervously as the moment suddenly moved too fast for his comfort.

"Sorry that took so long," she apologized, completely unaware of his snatching of the box off the table. Yet once comfortably seated, she took on his slightly paler complexion and added with a muffled worried look that marred her features passingly, "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he reassured, "Me? Fine. I am fine."

She smiled sweetly as he gave a delightful chuckle, beginning a brief moment of silence that allowed her to look down, pondering what had so clearly bothered her date. Looking up, she warmly questioned, "Now then, what did you want to ask me?"

His happy outlook diminished, causing her to wonder if she had spoken too abruptly, but he quickly offered prior to any attempts she could make to ask for pardon, "More wine?"

"No, I'm good with water; thanks," she quickly rebutted, a small smile still present on her face as if encouraging him to inquire the true question – one she hoped to have predicted and thus prompted her excusal to the lady's room. While in the haven of the loo, she hurriedly applied what she believed to help her features shine brighter in the dimly lit area, effectively imitating her own giddiness at the prospect of making their relationship more than it presently was.

Upon their first meeting, she originally sought to merely obtain a stable job in the world's all too shifting economy. However, once acquainted with Dr. John Watson, she suddenly found herself comforting the man through the loss of his dear friend and subsequent fraying of everything he once believed unbreakable. She'd heard many tales of Sherlock Holmes and even read a few of the cases on John's blog, but in order to help him move on, she quenched her curiosity; instead opting to focus on the present over the past - an easy option in her perspective.

So when John nervously twitched his head away, nodding at her choice, she gently prompted, "So…"

"Er, so…" he stopped, giving her a warm look of his own while eyes furiously calculated the next move. This was it; he didn't think he could afford to mess up, so he knew his next actions had to be effective. His words must be perfect - elegant. Unfortunately his nerves got the best of him as he stuttered, "Mary. Listen, erm… I know it hasn't been long… I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time…"

He paused, inwardly berating his sloppy introduction to perhaps the most important speech in his life. Looking downwards, he considered his words, causing Mary to grin and half-heartedly relinquish the bubbling excitement in her as she encouraged, "Go on."

"Yes, I will," he glanced up at her, then planned out his continuation more carefully, "As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me; and meeting you…" he trailed off, looking at her momentarily to gauge her reaction. Noting that it didn't reveal any displeasure, he nodded, "Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree," Mary beamed.

"What?"

"I agree I'm the best thing that could've happened to you," she reiterated, causing John to laugh at her boldness – one of the very qualities that had initially attracted him to the woman. She was strong, independent, and kind. Indeed, the best thing that could have happened to him after that crushing time.

Thinking that she came off a bit too strong, Mary scrunched her nose apologetically, "Sorry."

"Well, no. That's um…" he looked down and chagrined, returning his full attention to her, "So… If you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…"

Her attempt to keep a straight face and indulge him in her surprise was drastically wavering, her inner joy bubbling to the surface in giggles and a broad grin. He was going to ask her! Finally, after what seemed so long she could finally grasp a happy future with a man she genuinely couldn't imagine being someone else in this situation. Regardless, she fought back the urge to jump excitedly. This was his moment; she wouldn't let his efforts go to waste.

John cleared his throat, continuing, "If you could see your way to…"

Just as he was about to go for it, to ask for the woman he loved most of all for her hand, a man interrupted them, standing so close that his presence could not be overlooked. Shielding her face so that the newcomer can't see her giggling at John, Mary glanced passingly at the man while John chagrined and eventually looked at him as well.

"John Watson," the man identified him, totally unaware of the current situation.

"Yes, though now's not a good time-" he trailed off; eyes locking with Mary's to give him a hint of the atmosphere.

However, he seemed to give no care to the situation as he continued, "Dr. Watson, I need you to come with me. There's an important matter to which-"

This time John cut him off curtly, "No, sorry, not now please."

Mary pulled an amused face, awkwardly shifting in the slowly deteriorating moment. It definitely wasn't what she had expected, yet she found enjoyment in the oddity that she'd later look back upon in favour of the mundane traditional proposal. Once again, she felt an overwhelming surge of joy over her acceptance of John into her life.

But the suited man wouldn't back down, urgently continuing, "Sir, you must come this instant. It's imperative-"

"No, look, seriously," John huffed, annoyed at his tenacity, "Could you just-"

Apparently the man had also reached his limit, formal tone wavering slightly as he informed, "Sherlock Holmes is alive."

John's body flinched with such ferocity that, had she lost all hearing, Mary would've thought him shot. His stunned face froze in mid frown, eyes faintly beginning to water up in a mixture of emotions he had only recently overcome. A part of him believed the stranger's words to be some cruel joke, and his fists clenched in anger. Hadn't he gone through enough?

Noticing his tension, Mary carefully addressed, "John?"

Shakily, the named came to his feet, ducking his head momentarily before glaring painfully at the man, "What sort of sick joke-"

"This is no farce, Dr. Watson. Your friend is alive, and it is by my employer's request that you accompany him when he arrives at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in an hour," the man calmly related, regaining his composure.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes sir. Now if you may," he gestured towards the door, "I've pulled up a car to avoid any travel inconveniences you may experience."

John didn't budge, a flurry of emotions coursing through him: grieved confusion at the revelation, pained anger if it did indeed fulfill his expectations that the man had lied, and an array of questions he wasn't so sure he wanted to know the answers to - to name a few. Nonetheless, his stressed appearance slackened upon a hand wrapping around his arm. Turning to his left, he found Mary giving him support and breathed a silent prayer of gratitude for her actions that certainly prevented the confrontation from turning physical. He truly didn't know what he'd do without her.

"Let's go. I'll be right here, so don't worry," she gently reassured with a small squeeze.

His gaze softened as he returned the gesture with a slight squeeze of his own, steeling his gaze once more to prompt the man, "Lead the way."

…

The steady beat of a heart monitor sounded a solo in the darkened room, lit only by the machine's cold light. Attached to the mechanisms, rested Sherlock Holmes, his eyes somewhat sunken into his skull along with numerous bandages to match the multitude of battle scars – the only visible stain being the thick guaze around his upper right forearm. Ragged appearances aside, he took on an almost peaceful expression; his breathing steady and deep.

Just outside the room a small crowd gathered, composed of a select few chosen to bear the fraying secret of the detective's return. Among them were Mycroft, John, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson, along with Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan – the trio having been gathered by the brother to stand watch over the room should anything happen, although each contained a different level of inward contrition at the recollection of their last meeting with the patient. Molly Hooper joined them soon after, having been involved with the original plan gone array and receiving enough trust from Mr. Holmes to care for his sibling alongside John.

"How is he?" Mary vocalized the thoughts John couldn't bring himself to say; his body still trying to pull out of shock at the physical evidence of his friend's survival.

The girl tensely wetted her lower lip, "As of right now, I'm not fully sure. The first night, as I'm certain you're aware of, always possesses the largest risk," glancing at John's unimproved look, she quickly added, "B-But don't worry! Despite appearances, he's actually in moderately good health. A bit malnourished and dehydrated, but nothing serious, just…" she trailed off, her own worry getting the better of her.

"Do you have any idea what happened to him?" Lestrade inquired, all turning to look at Mycroft, who tore his gaze away from his kin to answer.

"An affiliate of mine discovered him while dismantling an illegal genetics facility near the Latvian-Russian border. He testified that the entire display correlated with a desire to expend any and all information Sherlock contained for martial purposes," he informed, failing to divulge into explicit details of the bust-turn-rescue mission. A cold chill uncannily took hold of him, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to shake it off. The circumstances bothered him, and he wasn't certain that the others could aid in the matter, promoting his silence.

"Dear me," Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands dejectedly, her eyes tearing slightly but she kept composed, "How long do you suppose he was in there?"

Mycroft's grim expression instantly took hold of everyone, and he returned his attention to the room, "In all likelihood, for the past two years."

Everyone stiffened simultaneously and a weight heavier than guilt landed on their shoulders. Could it really be possible? Could he have endured such unknown horrors for that long? And where were they? Sure, for the majority of the first year the searches were unending - driving Anderson into retirement to continue when all else (except maybe Mycroft, although no one kept in touch to figure out) threw in the towel when lack of any leads forced the file into the stack of unresolved cases.

Of them, John definitely held the highest remorse. Having been Sherlock's friend, he should have been the last to even consider giving up. Yet in the end, he too opted to believe the detective deceased and moved on due to his own weakness and inability to persevere any longer. Now hearing of the parallel struggle, he found an unconquerable shame take hold of him. Mary, noting this, considered holding him for support but hesitated at the implications of such actions. Right now he appeared so fragile... If she wasn't careful, he might break.

"It'll probably take some time for him to wake. You're free to go in and wait there or come down to the café and find something to eat," Molly suggested, prompting the group to split - some going down with her and Mrs. Hudson, Mary, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft remaining behind.

While Lestrade dutifully stayed at his post, the rest began to file in. However, it was in that moment - when Mycroft passed John - that the doctor realised something. Had the situation been reversed, there wasn't a chance Sherlock would not take notice of a feigned death. No, the subtle details at the time clouded by exhaustion and grief now presented themselves with such clarity that he knew without a doubt the brother was hiding something.

With such convictions in mind, John snatched the man's arm, effectively stalling his entrance. For his part, Mycroft took on a small look of surprise at the action, but recovered quickly, "Something you wish to discuss, Dr. Watson?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" He rasped, glaring accusingly.

"Pardon, but to what are you referring to through such a vague question?" Mycroft replied innocently.

"You know damn well!" John snarled, the venom in his voice startling Lestrade yet holding no such effect on the intended, "Why didn't you tell me Sherlock was alive? And don't say you didn't know, or so help me-"

"Calm down," the man instructed, "I suggest we walk to remedy your nerves and return to a hospitable state," he continued, beginning down the hall so that any sensitive information would stay with them only.

For a minute, John considered remaining stubbornly in place if only to spite the man, but considered it childish and unwarranted in the current situation and thus followed after. Silence surrounded them as they maneuvered their way through the halls until finally Mycroft deemed they had isolated themselves enough from any curious eavesdroppers. He turned to see the doctor looking expectantly at him, most rage having dissipated, though a good mass surviving in those blue depths.

"So, how long?" John prompted, assuming the departure from the room to be an indicator of the man bringing the genuine truth.

Deciding the best route being straightforward, Mycroft began, "Since the beginning."

He paused as John angrily looked down so as to restrain himself, observing for any indicators of potential violence. Finding none, he passively waited until the doctor nodded him on, "Alright, and what told you that he was still," he wetted his lower lip while recovering strength, "alive?"

Sure, John believed Mycroft truly cared for his brother's well-being – he'd witnessed the evidence enough times to disprove any claims contrary by either sibling. But he also knew that emotion alone would never be enough. No, Mycroft was far too reason-bound for that. There must be some proof, a slight blunder that tipped him off. The question was: why didn't he tell him?

"Belstaff," Mycroft simply explained, watching a ripple of sorrow course through the man as a memory overtook both of them:

_John raced down the halls, his short coat actually managing to catch enough wind so that it flapped minutely on his back. His heart pounded in a mixture of fear and anticipation. In his hand, he clutched his mobile, the message contained inside not allowing him to release his steel grip._

_Throwing open the door, he fought to recover his breath as the occupants turned to take in his form. Mycroft greeted in an off tone, barely recognisable to anyone other than himself, "John."_

_"What is it? Have you found something? Do you know where Sherlock is?" Before he knew it, the words slurred from his mouth as he looked expectantly between Molly, Anthea, and Mycroft, expecting to see his friend walk out at any moment to make a scene. He always did have a thing for drama._

_"John, just..." Molly started, trying to calm him down yet only achieving the opposite at his recognition of her red brimmed eyes._

_"Are you alright?" He questioned concernedly, a pit of dread taking form. Were they tears of joy or grief?_

_Shaking her head, the young woman hurried away from the room, trailed by Anthea soon after upon Mycroft's nod to follow. Things definitely didn't bode well at this point and a cold stone found its way in John's throat. He fidgeted uneasily, suddenly finding all desire to stay having been replaced with an unyielding urge to turn tail and flee. Yet years on the battlefield and stubborn determination kept his feet planted._

_Still, all that time abroad learning to steel himself had rusted over the years, giving way to an unsteady voice, "Where's Sherlock?"_

_For a moment, Mycroft simply stared back with no indication or subtle hint of anything positive or negative regarding the detective's whereabouts, nor explaining Molly's heavy reaction to whatever John's trigger word was. The silence seemed to drag on, lasting millennia even though the doctor knew it could only have been seconds in which he nearly shook the man and demanded an answer before he went insane. Luckily, such measures weren't necessary as the brother took a breath, reached behind one of the lab tables and pulled out what appeared to be a neatly folded blanket at first glances, but unfurled slightly to reveal otherwise._

_He handed it to John with an emotionless expression, attempting to hide his own distraught at the grave clues hidden inside the item. Gently holding it as if it were his own child, the doctor fully unraveled it, eyes widening at the familiar sight of Sherlock's infamous coat – with one disturbing addition. The entire left side prickled at the touch, and when he withdrew his hand, John chillingly appraised dried flecks of blood._

"_A coterie of alpinists in the Lorgaska Valley discovered it three days ago and reported the case to the local authorities," Mycroft finally spoke, "From there it was only a matter of minutes until one of my associates recognised the style and informed me."_

"_Is it-? I mean it can't…" John swallowed, forcing away the harsh reality, "How do you know it belongs to Sherlock? Any number of people could own the same coat."_

_Mycroft passingly gave a look so as to say such possibilities were too slim to even consider, before casting his attention down at the item, "I think we both know such isn't the case."_

_At his almost melancholy, whispering tone, John started painfully, the stone within gaining considerable weight that only worsened upon his instinct to deny the silent message relayed between them. No, not him; not Sherlock. After all they'd been through? No, he couldn't – he _wouldn't_ accept it. Not like this; alone and far away from his friends – some of which had doubted him despite the overwhelming truth that proved his innocence recognised too late, while others departed with angry words._

_Like comparing him to a machine._

_However, catching his move to argue, Mycroft intervened, "It is my brother's, John. If not the coat, then the blood analysis clears away all doubt. I'm sorry, but Sherlock is gone."_

_The slight wavering of his own mechanical voice hit John violently, to the extent that he physically had to support himself on the table nearby. Shock clearly showed in his expression along with numb tears that fought against his will to seem collected like Mycroft when everyone in the room plainly knew otherwise. He stared blankly at the jacket, reminiscing all the memories made with the owner, but stopping upon the fact that they only served as fuel for the pain's onslaught. _

_Lightly setting it down on the table, John turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the brother who inwardly fought to calculate his next move. On the way out, he passed by the two women; had he not been emotionally compromised, he may have found solace in their empathetic faces. Yet such wasn't the case as he made way to the apartment he rented in hopes of escaping the dusty tribute of 221B – never having the strength to clean it up or alter any detail since that fateful day._

_Arriving back at the apartment a half an hour later, he stared blankly ahead until it all caught up to him. Burying his face in his hands he wept. His best friend was dead._

"How? You yourself confirmed it was Sherlock's, and even then the blood matched his," John asked which a fleck of confusion, snapping out of his stupor.

"I assumed exposure to my brother's methods would impart some of his abilities onto you. Apparently I was incorrect in that assumption," Holmes sighed disapprovingly, "The amount of blood - exactly a pint and a quarter. It would seem James Moriarty is inept at recruiting reliable cohorts."

A small part of him berated himself for the truth in Mycroft's words. Had he learned nothing from his time with Sherlock? Nevertheless, John's nagging question replaced any shame with heated pondering, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And reel you back in after you were only just beginning to wiggle out? I believe such actions are deemed cruel. I counted your naïveté a blessing, not a burden - one you'd come to understand should the reality surface."

"A blessing?" John snorted, "No, you let me grieve. How could you do that? I know you're just as callous as your brother, but really. I'm his _friend_, I could've-"

"Helped?" He finished, "I disagree."

"What do you mean?" John glared, slightly taken aback, "Even if I'm not as clever as you or Sherlock, I was more than capable of helping. But that's just it isn't it?" He laughed bitterly, "You two are so caught up in acting all high and mighty and invincible that you refuse to accept any support when you so clearly need it. Clever? No, I take that back. You're not clever, just a pair of stubborn, arrogant idiots."

"And what, might I ask, would you accomplish under the worn state that consumed you back then?" Mycroft growled, betraying his anger briefly, "You were driven by desperation and prolonged exhaustion. How could I expect any aid from you when you weren't even able to maintain your own health? At best you presented a burden - one I wasn't willing to take on while in pursuit of my brother's whereabouts."

He turned to recover himself before things escalated to dangerous levels. Meanwhile, his vent had a sobering effect on John, who painfully accepted the explanation as valid. He was right, in that time even the doctor's patients took note of his gruff exterior and Mary made numerous comments on his sluggish actions. Hell, even Anderson laid off proved a better associate at the time.

The men's eyes met and each registered the other's tired cores. It had certainly been a long day, and their arguing didn't help in the slightest. Instead, they should have been by their loved one's side, awaiting his awakening. Silently agreeing to let the storm blow over for the moment, they began to amend the situation quickly and effectively when Mary ran up.

"He's awake!" She gasped, and they both glanced at each other before hurriedly returning to the room, entering with urgent necessity.

Once there, she stayed back to allow them a brief conversation with the patient, who verged on the edge of blacking out once more. The time allowed her to catch her breath not just because of the extensive effort needed to find the two, but of the chilling sight that set her nerves on edge. Even now the goosebumps prickled her arms, and she absentmindedly tried to rub them away.

Mary heard of multiple descriptions of the detective, most often his notable eyes that dually captivated and struck people as extremely vibrant and almost penetrating. A part of her jumped at the chance to examine such a sight she only thought she could simply imagine, yet the reality left her cold. Shuddering, she recalled the icy glint in the greenish irises that scrutinised her curious form while forcing her down in apprehension. They contained such darkness, such _hatred_, she actually feared the next meeting.

Peering back into the room where the men huddled over the now unconscious person, Mary couldn't help but wonder if the man John knew and so passionately praised was the same man lying in the bed behind her.

* * *

**First off thank you Silver Bullet-Wolf25, Shinaria, and lenasmith106 for your lovely reviews! I never thought that anyone would be interested this early on - enough to actually review too! I hope that I may continue to give you all a good story and keep the interest going... I say after this chapter. Yeesh, who would've thought it would be easier to write in Sherlock's view rather than John's? Regardless, I believe things went adequately well; catch the foreshadowing slap in the face yet?**

**Anyways, exams begin this week and carry out through the whole entire month until graduation (yeeee, so excited/scared/gahh! Please, me? Ready for college? Pfft. I wish ;u;) So as I'm sure you realize, updates will be few and far in between this month... Forgive me! I'll try to balance everything, but I can't promise anything except a third chapter by the beginning of June at the latest should I get enough motivation (coughcoughreviewscough) **

**Have a lovely day, God bless!**


	3. Change and Compunction

Chapter 3

London took on a bluish tint, reflecting in his introspective gaze as Sherlock passively sat upon the medical cot. Two stories below, the excited murmur of the press reverberated up, having finally gained knowledge of the detective's survival and return to snag the first look of his dischargement after a week in the hospital. But their liveliness failed to reach him, as did many things lately; much to his annoyance. He was supposed to be better than that - unaffected by emotions, yet even Sherlock Holmes couldn't suppress the numb shell that formed around him.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed the area where persistent injections and bandages polished his skin to a smooth patch. Per his request, the medical staff had removed all wires but the necessary I.V. in his left wrist and pulse monitor secured on his middle finger. His initial shock helped achieve the feat since upon waking to find himself in a similar setting that morphed into a nightmarish version of the facility lab, Sherlock's nerves sparked, propelling him to instinctually burst out and thus startle the occupants in the room into holding the man's panicked struggle down for his own good. Although he'd care not to admit it, Sherlock required a full afternoon with the aid of mild sedatives to calm his racing heart and scarred mental condition. Yet even impaired, his abilities as a detective held firm.

One of the first things he noticed in those transitional moments was the outright shock of the occupants: Lestrade, Mycroft, John, and a woman he never met before. Each displayed varying physical revelations of their startled state, which was understandable considering the abruptness of his actions. Yet something bothered him - a faint glimmer in John's eyes registered even in his hectic mindset, alluding that the true extent spanned far beyond what Sherlock observed.

It was only until the next week that the detective identified the quirk, and he didn't like what he found. His friend's gaze held all the typical emotions he read so easily in the past, but instead of a loyal underlying, the years seemed to have dug up the base and replaced it with a burdensome guilt. But why? It wasn't as if he could do anything, so why feel responsible? Sherlock pursed his lips in frustration. So long as the doctor remained in his current state, the likelihood of him accompanying him on cases in an effective manner reduced significantly. He had to get his friend to realise that he held no blame; the only question then was how.

The turning of the doorknob captured Sherlock's attention and he quickly shifted his eyes towards the door, wholeheartedly expecting anyone but the person who entered. It was the woman from before - whose demeanour spoke a pleasant prologue to her identity. Short-sighted, multilingual, guardian, only child, liar, held many secrets, disillusioned, lover, and nurse comprised a select few phrases encompassing her form, allowing the detective all he needed yet withholding a title. Regardless, the woman held enough intrigue to keep his attention more so than the common stranger.

But did such an honorific suit her? Surely she must hold some connection to one of his companions - most likely John, considering Mycroft's strict, over-burdensome mandate in regarding the younger brother's safety during the preliminary days of his return. Therefore, the woman must be another suitor of John's; the most recent in a long line, and - per Sherlock's assumption from past data - soon to depart from the doctor's life. Really, with such consistent results, his flatmate should cease scouring for potential spouses and focus on more relevant, important matters. Like picking him up, per say.

"Hello," she greeted, her expression remarkably controlled unlike many of the commonwealth.

However, her body betrayed a flicker of apprehension upon her approach. Had the meeting's vague aura affected her? No, such reactions were less severe than the minute burst she gave. Was she afraid of him? Because of their first encounter? But, if that were true, then the words surrounding her form stood stark contrast to the trait. Sherlock gave a brief frown, going over the evidence of her profile once more while she surprisingly reverted back to a calm stance - all of this taking place in the span of seconds, giving enough comfortable space for him to speak.

"Is John here?"

"Afraid not. He's been working overtime lately, with flu season and all," she informed, placing the bundle of clothes she held beside him, "Now get dressed. Your brother provided a ride for you back to Baker Street to lessen any inconveniences; it would be impolite to keep him waiting."

"Work? Certainly such a base procedure can be accomplished by any medical figure, regardless of the experience," he frowned, ignoring her will for him to act mannerly.

"I suppose so," she acknowledged, softening her gaze upon noting a blipper of emotion in his, "Just give him time; he'll pull out of it eventually. It's not every day your best friend comes back from the grave. Besides, you can't honestly expect things would stay the same - especially considering the last two years and what you've been through personally."

Everything the woman said made perfect sense, Sherlock accepted that, yet one thing stood out. He _did_ assume nothing would alter noticeably. Sure, it was a hopeful, naïve thought, but in regards to the alternative dramatic change, he presumed the former more probable. Unfortunately, such wasn't the case. Life moved on, despite the detective's assumption it would stay in place during his absence. It seemed the black corporation took much more than his freedom. It stole his time - something Sherlock wasn't confident he could easily reclaim.

Smiling lightly at his introspective stance, she made to depart, "I'll leave you to it then. Oh! And I'm Mary - just so that when you call you won't bring the entire hospital staff running," she winked in good humour.

Alone once more, Sherlock remained still for a moment. A part of him wished to relish a bit longer in the calm, but a stronger impulse urged him to get up and abandon the insignificant setting for a more active one, ultimately winning upon his retrieval of the first article on the stack. Unraveling it, a pulse of nostalgia coursed through him at the sight of his jacket - seemingly the one thing that hadn't altered in all this time.

…

_The clock ticked at an impossible pitch, assaulting John's ears as he desperately fought off an impulse to break the device hanging in the corner. Ever since his friend's fateful return, the days within the hospital dragged on endlessly - each second an eternity, and every patient a fleeting relief. Why couldn't he just snap out of it? Yes, Sherlock was back, and that was good, but he had a life to live nonetheless. Regardless of his friend or not, John Watson had a job to do. So why couldn't he just continue along as before?_

_Exhaling deeply, John rested his head in his hands. The answer was obvious, yet the solution not so much. But such was the case of his life - especially in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. A fact reserved not solely in the past, but the present moment as well._

_Muffled voices penetrated the not too sound-proof door, graciously reeling in the doctor from his thoughts before they surmounted him. Perking up, John placed a smile on his face, not wishing to convey his own personal problems with the client, no, _patient_._

"_It's alright Florence, you can let them in-" he began, stopping as the patient rashly opened the door._

_The world held its breath as John looked dumbfounded at the man in front of him – whose left arm was firmly within the grasp of the young stand-in nurse, her hazel eyes wide with embarrassment yet glimmering in determination of her mission. At the sight of her higher-up, she meekly released her grip, awkwardly stepping back as the scene unfurled. The former flatmates stared at each other, unable to say a word. In between his shock, the doctor picked up on his friend's own bravado diminishing exponentially upon crossing the breadth into the room._

"_John," Sherlock finally broke the silence, shifting almost uncertainly in the pressure, "I- Well…" he trailed off, inexplicably lost for words, yet recovering quickly, "You look well."_

_Almost instantly, John felt a powerful impulse to embrace the man, to affirm once again that he wasn't some hallucination from the past, to feel relieved and at peace. But he simply couldn't. The guilt tearing at him forbade it, keeping him in place and inhibiting his responses to an almost cruel length._

"_Yes," he managed, shaking slightly in the effort._

_Sherlock paused, wholly convinced that he would continue, but after a minute of silence, he started again, "Yes, well, good. It's reassuring to find you continued along your profession, and improved enough to get a personal office. Congratulations."_

_His words, once so fluent one would believe them rehearsed, __were now strewn with frequent pauses accented by flickering looks between the doctor and the room. He was obviously far beyond his comfort zone - forcing himself not only physically but mentally to make up for lost time. Sherlock Holmes, the great, prideful detective, was laying it all down for the simple sake of recovering a bond John had so easily thrown away. A strike of shame slapped him, nearly causing his body to physically convulse. He should have known; he shouldn't have given up; he should have believed…_

_Unable to do anything, John stared back at him, hoping to hide his emotions yet knowing the futility of such actions in the presence of the man. Catching his short words and relating them to a desire for solitude, Sherlock averted his gaze, shifting his feet while concluding, "I suppose you are busy, so I will respectively leave to alleviate any further distractions..." he gave one last awkward shift of his feet, letting Florence lead him out but not before casting a final look at him over his shoulder. _

_The door clicked shut, beginning a deafening silence broken moments later by John burying his face in his palms, choking down the tears. Contrary to the detective's deduction, he wanted nothing more than to return to the hectic yet adventurous times before the mess. But instead of gathering the will for such a feat, he cowardly opted for silence, bringing about more pain to the man when he already endured so much. _

"_I'm sorry…" he rasped out, minutes too late._

"But that was weeks ago John," Mary argued, trying to keep her anger tempered for the doctor's sake but also realising the damaging effects of his actions, "You've barely spoken to him, and when you do it's hardly what anyone would call a conversation."

"I know; I know," John admitted painfully, turning away to avoid her truthful eyes.

"Look, you have to talk to him sometime. It's not as if you can pretend he doesn't exist forever – especially considering he's your friend. Come on, go visit him. You know it would make him happy," she kindly goaded, nearly winning him over if it weren't for the nagging weight in his core.

"I can't. I have to stay in case anyone shows up for a vaccine. Mrs. Smih's appointment is in ten minutes - and you know how she prefers to arrive early and finish promptly. And then there's-"

"Mr. Cabrera at noon, followed by the Darlingtons at twelve-thirty – I know, and I can handle it," Mary interrupted, "Just go, a tiny break and fresh air will do you good after being cramped up in here for days."

"I-" he began to object, but once more was cut short at her recognition of the reaction.

"John! Would you snap out of it?" she raised her voice unintentionally, her fear over his self-destructive emotional state getting the better of her, "What happened to Sherlock wasn't your fault. How were you supposed to know-?"

"But it was!" he yelled back as she flinched in surprise. Balling his fists, he continued dejectedly, "I was his friend. Out of anyone, _I_ was supposed to search for him no matter what, to _believe_ he survived, to _find_ him. But I gave up. I abandoned him while he was being strung up like some lab rat for experimentation."

He paused, gathering his control in shaky hands all the while looking sorrowfully into her eyes, "Sherlock was always there for me, no matter what. He never doubted and never gave up. I thought I could do the same, but I couldn't. He needed me, and I wasn't there."

…

"And here we are, just as you left it. Well, a bit more dusty, but all relatively the same," Mrs. Hudson stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to enter into 221B.

In accordance to the landlady's words, the flat indeed kept its order – everything almost exactly in the same position as he left. It was almost aweing that two years had passed by, having so little impact on the room. Traveling over to his chair, he brushed his fingers along the familiar material, giving his mind time to readjust to the setting.

"Returned at last," Sherlock's reminiscent expression soured at his brother's voice, turning as Mycroft stepped into the flat.

"So it would seem," he flatly agreed.

Catching wind of the upcoming negativity, Mrs. Hudson scurried downstairs, saying, "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything Sherlock."

Meanwhile, Mycroft frowned at Sherlock's response, "Quick to take up old habits as always I see."

"Were you expecting anything more? Was I supposed to have come out of my ordeal with a new perspective on life, cherishing the little things?" Sherlock sneered.

Shaking his head at the younger Holmes, the elder sighed, "No, but a small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?"

"Why, for finding _you._ Did you honestly think that soldier happened upon the site by stroke of luck? No, I ordered him there," Mycroft explained, piquing his brother's attention as he continued, "I've hardly been idle in the past two years. Since the day of your disappearance I have combed through multiple potential hotspots – Moriarty's network to be precise. Took me two years of dismantling to find you."

"Oh, and you're confident you've demolished every sector?" Sherlock raised a doubtful brow.

"Certainly; the United Federation of Planets was the last piece."

"And what of Moriarty?"

"Gone," Sherlock started at the relayed information, Mycroft dismissing it normal while clarifying, "He has successfully eluded any and all radars since the time you went under. Which considering the possibility of such a feat, beckons darker conclusions regarding his fate. As far as we know, James Moriarty is long departed."

Sherlock gave a dubious snort, turning his back on his brother to approach the window. Brushing aside a layer of dust, he said contemptuously, "You're slipping if you truly believe that, but I suppose that's middle age." Rolling his eyes at the detective's snide, Mycroft frowned indignantly as he continued, "If you have nothing more to say of any importance, then you can let yourself out."

Giving a bitter tinged smile, the man shifted so that his trademark umbrella rested on his forearm, retrieving a folder from an inside coat pocket. Briefly giving it a one over, he held it out to his sibling, who glanced back as Mycroft verbalized, "Coincidentally enough, your return has correlated neatly with our current need. An underground terrorist network was discovered last week in London. Being active, a massive attack is imminent."

Through his explanation, Sherlock had taken possession of the file and scanned through its contents, giving the other confidence that the case would be taken, so he added only a slight push, "Seems London has need of you once more, brother dear."

"Apparently," Sherlock commented, snapping shut the folder and looking over nonchalantly, "Anything else? No? Then off you pop."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft abided to his brother's bidding if only this one time. However, he couldn't suppress a small smile at the unleavened spirit of his kin after all he must have gone through. Diminishing his carefree expression, the man set his own mind to work. The likelihood of his brother imparting his testimony of the lost time was slim – even more so in his presence. Therefore, the only option lay in discovering the truth solo. Flipping through his small notepad, Mycroft stopped at a marked page and read over the contact. At least he had somewhere to start.

Meanwhile, Sherlock cast his eyes on the street below, his mind settling back into the familiar grooves that accompanied a case. His consciousness should have been directed solely to that part of his mind, yet another sector brightened simultaneously. Somehow, someway, he had to get John back to his side – help him realise his actions were logical and therefore innocent. Unfortunately, the measures to achieve such results stood extreme lest the detective scavenge the patience to wait for his friend's scars to heal or, worse yet, adapt to life without him.

The man frowned. Such an option wasn't even worth considering.

* * *

**Hello all! Well small chapter, but in my defense it almost verged on not being posted at all. You see, I was typing the majority of it on my tablet - which died and failed to save anything. Yeah, talk about shot to the heart. Honestly, if it wasn't for your lovely reviews there wouldn't be a chapter three for another two weeks. So yeah, there's your proof that reviews motivate me. (Literally, the whole time I was like, 'for the reviewers, for the followers, for the peeps I made a promise to' while internally raging/bawling)**

**Anyways, I realize that this chapter has a ton going on and I ask that you bare with it. And why not? This is an insanity issue, so craze is good - right? If not, then chew on the little cliffhangers, if you can find them, until your ready to tackle the craziness. Still no indication of Khan you say? Well, I wouldn't exactly say that, now would I?**

**Hope you all have a splendid day/night! Next time we meet I'll officially be a graduate! So why not review/favourite in place of presents? c;  
God Bless!  
**


	4. Dubiety

Chapter 4

Within hours the walls of 221b were covered by a barrage of photos, maps, receipts, notes, and other paraphernalia. To the right: a woman leading two small dogs; left: a man recording the daily news on a worn notepad; down: a map of the west end with strings connecting each person in question. These were his markers; the ones who knew. Should anything happen, their actions would serve as indicators – like rats deserting a sinking ship. An easy task considering the cesspool of criminals, agents and drifters irresistibly drawn into the city, and the massive network of homeless he rounded up for the task of spying – sending pictures and frequent updates from their mobiles, some of which being courtesy of Mycroft and his desire to see the case solved yet unwillingness to perform the legwork required to get the job done himself.

Sherlock's face contorted upwards in a brief smirk. Although coming from a less than pleasing source, the case allowed him to reacquaint himself with London and all its twists and turns. The air, albeit a touch smoggy, was a welcoming taste – almost nostalgic considering two years' worth of damp, muggy drafts with only passing bursts of crisp, harsh gusts to clear the mind and cleanse the lung. Still, coupled with the regained ability to choose where and when he wanted to go, Sherlock felt almost excited to return; a feeling he reflected upon with a wincing curiosity.

In all his time, the detective had fought to condemn such frivolous emotions that served nothing better than to clog his abilities; yet after spending time with John, his confidence in that matter diminished. Indeed, the addition of another soul serving as a makeshift conscience changed things. No longer did he have the luxury of being alone to solidify those walls of indifference and keep back the burdensome sentiment. True, he believed that the recent two years of isolation would serve to null those effects, but they accomplished rather the opposite. Sherlock Holmes's shell had been cracked – some fractures unable to revert back to the way they were before, thus prompting his visits to Lestrade, Molly, and even Anderson of all people.

Why? Why was he going through the effort to reacquaint himself with these people to the extent where he went to them, as opposed to the typical way round? Sherlock couldn't make any sense of it. Surely more important matters required his attention foremost – like the terror threat, right? Yet despite this lingering urge to fulfill the pending task, he opted for more trivial aspects of his life; although, could they really be considered that? After all, he _did_ go out of his way to see them when they all had their own powwows back at the hospital. Therefore they _weren't_ trivial (although he'd never admit it to anyone alive), so why did he think otherwise for event a moment?

Those thoughts, however, were for another place and time. Currently, Sherlock held a task to complete – not the main one, but a nice break which he seemed to be taking often as of late. Odd; how he felt himself drawn away from the terror case and towards something more obscure but imperative nonetheless. It annoyed him – like an itch under his skin he couldn't quite scratch. Perhaps that is why he gladly accepted the presence of a client waiting in the flat upon his return.

He was a young man, in his mid-30s, with rounded features that foretold his borderline BMI overshoot, and wore odd attire that outlined the remaining anxiety, wear-and-tear of frequent travel, and, after a quick sniff even at his distance, deemed him a bearer of halitosis. Zooming in closer on the clothes, Sherlock observed perspiration stains along the man's headgear, as well as multiple stitches that nearly concealed themselves had they not been slightly raised, indicating sentimentality or perhaps even OCD considering the excess in repairs rather than purchasing another hat altogether.

"Er, Sherlock Holmes?" the client sheepishly inquired, hand instinctually drifting towards the left bobble, which showcased nervous chew marks - all of this hinting toward an isolated disposition in favour of a socialized one that would showcase more confidence in his step.

Pushing away the remaining deductions, the named finally looked the man in the eyes, "Yes. If you are aspiring to rid yourself of that meddlesome habit, I suggest obtaining the assistance of a psychological counsellor - he or she will undoubtedly serve better in that area than the general clinic nurse you are seeing currently."

"Uh, alright," he shifted in embarrassment, "Thanks, I'll remember that. I think."

Sherlock tilted his head, quickly catching the man's real purpose, "Since you're still here, I presume you have a matter which you are unable to explain. Good, then take a seat Mr.-"

"Shilcott," the client finished, "Howard Shilcott."

"Very well," the detective gave minimal interest, settling down in his chair for what appeared to be a drawn out explanation leading inevitably to a short-lived case that wouldn't reach further than the barriers of the room. Resisting the urge to rest his cheek upon his hand in disinterest, preferring to act with neutral attentiveness should his expression sway the story, Sherlock gestured to the sofa. However, Howard unexpectedly denied the offer.

"Sorry, but I wasn't expecting you to be away; and I have this appointment and..." Howard trailed off, visibly distraught at the unplanned turn in events.

"Go on then," Sherlock waved him to the door, easily letting go of his moment's intrigue at the man's change of plan after waiting persistently for his arrival, "Write down your address and I'll pop by later if time lends itself." And if nothing else proves intriguing, he silently added, doubting whatever the man had to bring actually provided any worthwhile release from the loathed state.

"Of course!" the man quickly scribbled down the information, placing it on a side table when Sherlock made no move to retrieve it from his grasp, "And how much do you want - just so I can be certain I have enough."

Sighing deeply in annoyance, Sherlock corrected, "If you truly know who I am, then you should know I'm not swayed by money. Just provide an interesting case and keep trivial questions and remarks at a minimum."

"O-Okay!" the man quickly agreed, beginning to make his departure when a though hit the detective.

"Actually," Sherlock began, stopping his exit with a minutely visible wince, "There is something…" he gestured to the man's headgear, "May I borrow it?"

The client gave an uncertain tremor, shifting his feet at the mere thought of departing from the item – thus solidifying his obsessive compulsive deduction. Had his curiosity waned even the slightest in that moment, Mr. Shilcott would have undoubtedly refused; but alas, he consented and with a hesitant hand gave Sherlock the bobble hat with the utmost care.

"Please don't lose it," Howard anxiously pleaded, seemingly seconds away from going back on the deal until Sherlock pushed him out the flat altogether.

"Yes, yes," he spoke nonchalantly, "Good day Mr. Shilcott."

Sherlock gave a small grin – his deductive capabilities had indeed not waned; Howard's visit lay strong foundation on that. So why did he continue in lingering dubiety? His victorious euphoria darkened. The persistent incertitude remained like a lump of clay in the detective's gut, and a sprinkle of sneering contempt at those skills as if they were mere child's play accompanied the burden within. Where had such self-deprecating thoughts spawned from? And could he truly rely solely on his own perception of events?

No, such would bias the results. He required another set of eyes to reaffirm the facts – only then would the doubt disperse. And lucky him, that man pulled up right outside his flat.

…

A strange quirk lies on the perimeter of St. Bartholomew's Hospital - an unknown, rather forgotten trait that only regulars hold the chance of catching: of them, Molly Hooper claiming a lucky spot, smiling nostalgically at the slight squeak of the south side exit after a long shift. The simple normality, once grumbled off as an annoyance, now gave solace to the hectic changes in her life. Between grieving, starting over, engagement, and returning friends, the young woman's life certainly classified beyond the normal, everyday chaos. But then living with a friend like Sherlock Holmes has that effect.

Just when she was about to break free from the detective's grip on her life and affections, he returned. Not that she held a grudge. She, like the rest, mourned his disappearance - an astonishing revelation, especially in the view of Molly and Mycroft upon their scheme coming to an abrupt dead-end that fateful afternoon. But once beyond the sorrow, she managed, by some miracle, to move on and start fresh. She met a nice, _normal_, non-sociopathic guy, who helped her to see the light and mend a fractured heart. And although she could never forget Sherlock (and let's be honest, who can?), Tom's presence revived her where hours in the morgue simply couldn't.

Being a pathologist, Molly Hooper was quite accustomed to death and its aftereffects, therefore presuming herself immune to the typical reactions. Now she was no impassive woman, but she never expected the shattering of herself at the apparent death of the man - then again, she never expected him to die in the first place. Like John and many others, she believed him on par with immortals; and after all he'd been through, why not? Sherlock was undoubtedly a survivor - his recent come back proved it, while simultaneously enshrouding her, and everyone else besides maybe Mycroft for that matter, in a thick blanket of guilt.

Upon hearing of his torment, the young woman instantly regretted giving up on the detective so easily. Instead of toughing through the pain and searching to the ends of the earth for him, she opted to let go and salvage the remnants of her own life. Initially, she blamed Mycroft's secrecy for the guilt. Had he only trusted them more they would have helped without hesitation rather than believe the jumps in conclusions their hearts made at the sight of the bloodstained coat; but at heart she knew such accusations were incorrect and unfair towards him. In their short meet, Molly gained enough from the elder Holmes to understand his motives in keeping the task to himself. Sherlock was _his_ brother after all, so best leave family to find family - and who better than the one person perhaps above the detective in deductive capabilities to solve the mystery?

Indeed, it resulted nicely, considering the man was back now. But was he? Perhaps it was her own buried feelings trying to surface, or the tendency to highlight noble aspects of a departed soul, or the time apart, or something darker, but Molly felt a tinge of doubt creep up within her. Sherlock definitely returned in a physical sense, yet psychologically? She didn't know. At their first meet he seemed...distant - beyond that of a shell-shocked victim. His gaze bore more focused calculation than typical when she watched him retreat into himself for thought. Was this the result of her own Pollyannaisic position of his morals? Certainly she knew how cold he could be; to the extent he held the potential of joining the ranks of manic criminals in her eyes had her own personal experiences with him been nulled.

Yet this was different. She knew Sherlock - okay, maybe not as well as John or Mycroft, but still. Molly had witnessed enough sides of the man to recognise his core: a kind, caring man who perhaps felt too much and thus decided not feeling at all the only option in a world so cold. She knew his tactics in concealing himself in a veil of indifference, but somehow this new one didn't register in the same way. Maybe it was her own worry at play, but Sherlock simply didn't feel like Sherlock anymore. Something darker tinged his usual aura - something that put everyone who noticed on the defensive instinctually. Danger. Yes, he seemed _dangerous_.

Molly chuckled at herself; what was she thinking? Sherlock, hurt them? He may be cruel at times, but he'd never harm them purposefully. Right?

A heavy lump no bigger than a pebble lodged in her throat. He _wouldn't_ hurt them, right? Although her immediate response was an affirmation, a flicker of a 'no' passed through Molly's judgment. Why? Certainly she was simply worn from the long day's demands, she tried to tell herself, but the weight endured far too long for that assumption to last. The pathologist shivered, wholly uncomfortable at the vile notion yet unable to completely dispute it. She decided that should it persevere to the following morning, she'd approach Lestrade or maybe even Mycroft about it; purposefully leaving John out.

The poor guy... Out of them all, he definitely took it the hardest when he should have been the most joyous. Perhaps she'd pop in to visit the doctor, to somehow say something to get him back on his feet... But then, what could she say that Mary or someone else hadn't? She was by no means an instant cure, and held a fear that her words may only rub salt into the wounds. She was a pathologist and spent most of her time among the dead, who passively accepted everything she had to say. The living weren't so unaffected.

Finally opting to return home and spend the rest of the evening with Tom watching a late night movie or whatnot, the woman flung one end of her long scarf over her shoulder and managed a bright smile. Regardless of what was happening and what was to come, she knew she couldn't dwell on the negative - doing so would certainly bring about her downfall. No, she had to keep the light in sight; help herself out of the mud before getting the others out - but that too could wait. Tonight, she'd be content with a peaceful evening in. Just what the doctor ordered.

Unfortunately, that obligation would have to wait as her mobile suddenly rang.

Picking up the device, she pressed her head to the speaker and spoke quickly, bypassing the customary caller ID check, "Molly-"

…

"-Hooper?" Sherlock murmured, passing over the image within his eccentric mind palace.

Three hours had passed since Mycroft's departure and still no movement presented itself within the markers. Obviously more time was needed, which unfortunately meant one thing: waiting. Of all the risks, horrors, stakes and pains Sherlock Holmes had gone through, boredom remained the reigning champion of his hatred – and nothing prompted the contemptuous state more than waiting.

Therefore, the detective scrapped up a simple solution to avoid such unappealing results: work cases. It was child's play; he could gain back more awareness of the city while dually sharpening his mind – everything fell into place. That is, _almost_ everything.

"Sherlock, talk to John," Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed in the spacious room once filled with numerous faces, now dwindled down to his own and Molly's.

For the briefest moment, the detective went to entertain such suggestion when the man in question's face flashed in the mirror marked by a defeated shadow in the soldier's eyes that led him to stop in his tracks and grimace. No, John would undeniably reject his offer – that was certain. _He _was the one being avoided, not the other way around. It simply couldn't be helped. The doctor still held onto his guilt, he knew that. This was the whole driving factor of this temporary fill-in search that lead to the girl standing before him.

Sure, Sherlock didn't require an assistant to accompany him; but like he said long ago, talking aloud helped process his thoughts more efficiently and over the years he grew fond of another life to converse about mystery with - even if the conversation was typically one-sided. And looking at the final contestant, he couldn't surmise a better fit other than John himself. Molly Hooper had her shortcomings, though the detective presumed those affections dimmed with the renewed social life and recent addition of an expensive accessory on her finger, but overall she held great importance. So much so that he entrusted her over John to play a role in the initial Lazarus project. His faith in her loyalty, while remaining strategically under Moriarty's radar undoubtedly served her well; and at times, he admitted, she produced truly magnificent ideas.

"All valid points, but in the end she'll only slow us down. Just go alone, it will be much more productive that way," a voice echoed through the room.

Sherlock gave a weary sigh, turning towards the window to take in his reflection - which rebelled against all natural law by _not_ reflecting his stance. Instead, it appeared as if he were crossing his arms, looking absentmindedly at his fingernails. To some, the sight would be alarming, but not to Sherlock. He had grown used to and even felt amused at such theatrics - deeming them a reliable logical standpoint in favour of replacing Mycroft's image, and a rather effective coping mechanism during the experimental years. His doppelganger was merely that: himself, just a different sect - likely the surviving pieces of himself before meeting John. In the end _he_ was the real one, not the dying copycat, and in time it would fade to the background like all the others. And rightly so, seeing as his appearance dwindled significantly in the past weeks to the barely visible form it now possessed.

"Inspirational reasoning," Sherlock said, turning to ignore the echo, "But she will come along regardless."

"Please, you're just doing it for the attention," the copy muttered, his remaining words lost on the original as he exited the mind palace.

Plucking up his mobile from the table, Sherlock dialed up Molly's number and politely requested her presence - recalling from her schedule that she would have the rest of the afternoon free of work and thus stand available to join him. And indeed, she agreed with only a slight tremor of hesitation derived more from exhaustion than evasion. And within minutes he could hear her climbing up the stairs, resulting in a minute jump of his heart in excited apprehension - pulled back by his inner self scrutinizing such reactions and own self-awareness however slim it may be. Therefore, when Molly opened the flat's door, he made himself seem as casual as deemed correct.

"You wanted to see me?" Molly greeted, head tilted slightly in curiosity.

Sherlock smiled, putting on a mask to conceal his own lingering inner turmoil about replacing John. Just the thought invoked a feeling akin to the breathing tube being inserted into his throat; and he didn't like it for obvious and not-so-obvious reasons. Still, the pathologist behind him stood the best probability of accepting his offer, he'd only have to choose his words with care.

"Yes," he turned fully to greet her, beginning a slow, welcoming approach. The effect, however, had him stopping short. A blip of apprehension tore through her gaze, making him almost moan aloud in disbelief. She too held persistent guilt; that was clear, so much so that she winced at his proximity. Odd though, she didn't behave as such in the hospital...

In spite of that, he still had to try, "Molly?"

"Y-Yes?" she stuttered, regaining her controlled posture.

"Would you..." Sherlock trailed off, the knowledge gained by her reaction complicating matters. The ice appeared significantly thinner than he predicted, making straightforward the optimal and likely only approach, "Would you like to..."

"Have dinner?" "Solve crimes?" Both finished simultaneously.

To say the moment was awkward would be an understatement – even Sherlock felt slightly uneasy, having presumed the two-year absence to have diminished Molly's affections towards him. The piece of him that argued against such a move now shook its head, placing an "I told you so" and "She will only be a distraction" face within its hands. And for a moment, the detective felt compelled to agree until the girl spoke.

"A-Alright," she gave a weak smile, "I mean, if you're sure about this."

"Absolutely," he replied, hoping to spark some confidence in her.

"Right, then I brought this," she said, procuring a notebook from her bag, "To take notes of course. Unless you don't need them. Maybe it was just a waste..."

"If it doesn't make you feel better, than perhaps so," he shrugged, unable to keep back the remark.

"Well, it's just something John said he does; so if I'm being John..." she chagrined, twiddling her thumbs anxiously.

Sherlock exhaled a deep breath, looking so they stared in each other's eyes. No one could ever replace John, and to hear that Molly was under the impression to do so dually aggravated and bothered him. His former flatmate wasn't commonplace or easily changed like a woman's clothing. John Watson gained that which most could only aspire to possess: Sherlock's trust. Not many could achieve such a feat, even Molly stood below the doctor in that arena. But still, he felt disconcerted that the woman felt she had to match John in order to gain his approval - likely the lingering self-reproach talking. In that case, he'd have to blow away such inklings quickly.

Speaking truthfully, he said, "You're not 'being John' - you're being _you_."

Initially, Molly blinked in surprise at the response, not expecting such words from him, but a feeling of pride welled up within her core nevertheless, "Right. Now, where to first?"

Sherlock blinked, genuinely, yet mildly so, surprised at her acceptance and quick relinquishment of doubt – the feeling pushing away his own fragments of uncertainty from before. Molly Hooper was not a hindrance; that he could be certain of.

"Scotland Yard," he answered, trading his red robe with the Belstaff and scarf, "Lestrade called while you were on your way. Said he had an interesting find."

"Oh! Well, great," Molly replied, trying her best to put on an interested expression, "Let's go then."

The duo walked on, leaving behind the room of scraps, maps, and crossed out photos; oblivious to the larger picture made; seen only when standing a few paces back. Lines connected in no orderly way to the conscious mind, but subconsciously a message attempted to get through. It looked like an arrowhead with a star in the middle - the top point extending so that it appeared more of a spaceship than distant sun.

* * *

**I'M SO SORRY! ;u;**

**I realise it's been over a month since my last update and am really sorry for the delay when you all gave such lovely reviews. Between college, trips, and a massive writer's block, this chapter took forever for me to get out in a suitable form. Forgive me! TuT**

**But, as you can see, more Khan emerging! He's slowly crawling to the surface and I'm almost tempted to make him burst out theatrically, but that would kill the growing suspense! Either way, his entrance is not far behind c;  
That and a little Molly action! Sorry if she comes off as a mere filler, but I feel it's important to get out another POV on the situation other than Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Mary, and Khan - each of whom will be the main perspectives in this story. Also, it allows inspiration to slap me in the face and actually finish chapters. Still, if you guys don't like, then I'll try my best to keep the views within the five mentioned.  
**

**Next update will hopefully be quicker; thank you all again for the lovely reviews! **

**God Bless~**


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